was a coincidence—and the odds were the same that a mule would win the Kentucky Derby—it spoke of an operation more elaborate than Charlie ever would have conceived.
The duty officer and two FBI types could be heard passing the stairwell and boarding the elevator. The duty officer, more deferential now, was launching into his pickpockets-on-a-cold-night joke when the doors clanged shut.
15
Charlie and Drummond exited the precinct house lobby onto a dimly lit sidewalk in the middle of a block of pitch-black stores and office buildings. There was no traffic. Alley cats were padding out from wherever they spent the day. The Daily News deliveryman was the only person in sight.
Whichever direction Charlie turned, he had the sensation that someone was sneaking up from behind. A cold gust sliced through his sweatshirt.
Taking Drummond by a sleeve, he headed downtown, if only to have the wind at their backs. He stayed close to the buildings so that someone in the squad room would have to open the window and stick out his head in order to see them.
On the slight chance Drummond’s knack for evasion would yield an idea of what to do next, Charlie admitted, “Getting us out of there was as far as my plan got.”
“There’s an IRT station just two blocks away,” Drummond said.
The Interborough Rapid Transit Company had discontinued service here, Charlie was sure of it. His only question was whether it had been before or after his birth. “It’s closed.”
“Oh, right, right.”
There were two working subway stations in the area, each about a ten-minute walk. But by the time Charlie and Drummond made it to either—if they made it at all—they could expect a reception committee of transit cops.
“How about that?” Drummond pointed to the Daily News truck.
The twenty-foot-long rear loader sat at the curb two buildings down from the precinct house. Silver letters stenciled onto its driver’s door spelled out HIPPO , which was apt. Its big rear door was wide open.
“You mean, stow away in it?” Charlie asked, hoping that Drummond had meant something else. Newspapers were stacked so high and tight inside the truck, it would be hard to hide, or even fit.
“No, take it.”
Charlie mulled it over. Any second the “FBI agents” would finish conferring with Beckman and the other detectives, and the lot of them would stampede this way.
At the corner, the deliveryman loaded a stack of newspapers into the machine. He was the size of a grizzly. But Smith had been no peewee.
“You have another knockout punch in you?” Charlie asked Drummond.
“A knockout punch?”
“Remember how, like an hour ago, you flattened Kermit Smith?”
“By hitting him, you say?”
“I have another idea.” Charlie kept to himself that it was a long shot. “Just stay put for a second.”
Charlie was afraid. He recalled the horseplayer maxim: Scared money never wins. And as he did sometimes while sitting in the grandstand, he felt himself warm to the opportunity to defy the odds. He broke into a jog.
Nearing the corner, he called out, “Sir?”
The big deliveryman spun around.
“Sergeant Beckman,” Charlie said. He flashed his wallet to show the business card the detective had given him, now in a transparent plastic pocket. He held it so as to give the embossed police department shield prominence. The shield glinted silver in the spill of streetlight. With a wave at his sweatshirt and jeans, he added, “Undercover.”
The deliveryman stood unnaturally straight. “What’s up, Sergeant?”
“I need your keys. Bomb Squad’s got a special delivery with an ETA of sixty ticks. Your rig’s too close to the entrance.”
“No problem,” the deliveryman said with a measure of relief. “Mind if I just get a better look at your ID?”
“Um—”
The revving of a mammoth engine drew their attention up the block. Drummond sat at the wheel of the Daily News truck.
The deliveryman showed only a little surprise.
Of course,
The duty officer and two FBI types could be heard passing the stairwell and boarding the elevator. The duty officer, more deferential now, was launching into his pickpockets-on-a-cold-night joke when the doors clanged shut.
15
Charlie and Drummond exited the precinct house lobby onto a dimly lit sidewalk in the middle of a block of pitch-black stores and office buildings. There was no traffic. Alley cats were padding out from wherever they spent the day. The Daily News deliveryman was the only person in sight.
Whichever direction Charlie turned, he had the sensation that someone was sneaking up from behind. A cold gust sliced through his sweatshirt.
Taking Drummond by a sleeve, he headed downtown, if only to have the wind at their backs. He stayed close to the buildings so that someone in the squad room would have to open the window and stick out his head in order to see them.
On the slight chance Drummond’s knack for evasion would yield an idea of what to do next, Charlie admitted, “Getting us out of there was as far as my plan got.”
“There’s an IRT station just two blocks away,” Drummond said.
The Interborough Rapid Transit Company had discontinued service here, Charlie was sure of it. His only question was whether it had been before or after his birth. “It’s closed.”
“Oh, right, right.”
There were two working subway stations in the area, each about a ten-minute walk. But by the time Charlie and Drummond made it to either—if they made it at all—they could expect a reception committee of transit cops.
“How about that?” Drummond pointed to the Daily News truck.
The twenty-foot-long rear loader sat at the curb two buildings down from the precinct house. Silver letters stenciled onto its driver’s door spelled out HIPPO , which was apt. Its big rear door was wide open.
“You mean, stow away in it?” Charlie asked, hoping that Drummond had meant something else. Newspapers were stacked so high and tight inside the truck, it would be hard to hide, or even fit.
“No, take it.”
Charlie mulled it over. Any second the “FBI agents” would finish conferring with Beckman and the other detectives, and the lot of them would stampede this way.
At the corner, the deliveryman loaded a stack of newspapers into the machine. He was the size of a grizzly. But Smith had been no peewee.
“You have another knockout punch in you?” Charlie asked Drummond.
“A knockout punch?”
“Remember how, like an hour ago, you flattened Kermit Smith?”
“By hitting him, you say?”
“I have another idea.” Charlie kept to himself that it was a long shot. “Just stay put for a second.”
Charlie was afraid. He recalled the horseplayer maxim: Scared money never wins. And as he did sometimes while sitting in the grandstand, he felt himself warm to the opportunity to defy the odds. He broke into a jog.
Nearing the corner, he called out, “Sir?”
The big deliveryman spun around.
“Sergeant Beckman,” Charlie said. He flashed his wallet to show the business card the detective had given him, now in a transparent plastic pocket. He held it so as to give the embossed police department shield prominence. The shield glinted silver in the spill of streetlight. With a wave at his sweatshirt and jeans, he added, “Undercover.”
The deliveryman stood unnaturally straight. “What’s up, Sergeant?”
“I need your keys. Bomb Squad’s got a special delivery with an ETA of sixty ticks. Your rig’s too close to the entrance.”
“No problem,” the deliveryman said with a measure of relief. “Mind if I just get a better look at your ID?”
“Um—”
The revving of a mammoth engine drew their attention up the block. Drummond sat at the wheel of the Daily News truck.
The deliveryman showed only a little surprise.
Of course,
Similar Books
